


d a d jokes

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dumplings, Fluff, Gen, Housemates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: A campus, chill times, dad jokes.





	

“I have to admit, I’m not entirely sure who I’m looking for.”

“Dude’s pretty hard to miss. Asian Jesus? Chill ass beard? Aversion to clothes?”

Chirrut stood perfectly still, smiling kindly, counting to three in his head. Then, the typical noises that accompanied realisation of blindness to blindness and… “Oh dude, sorry man. Completely forgot.”

Chirrut shook his head. He was used to it, but he wouldn’t admit that and let the man feel less guilty. If Chirrut lived off anything, it was twisting the knife. 

“Here, uh…” the man, who Chirrut knew very little about other than the heavy scent of weed, took Chirrut’s elbow and turned him 30 degrees to the right. “If you go like. Shit, like, 100 metres forwards, he’s next to a tree.” The man made a small noise of annoyance. “Not that you can see the tree. Do you know how long a metre is? Shit.”

“I know how long a metre is.” Chirrut smiled, and nodded, very much ready to leave the man’s company. Then a thought. “‘Aversion to clothes’?” he asked, turning back slightly.

“Dude’s got like. The worst fashion sense. Tank tops and ripped jeans and shit, but like rips so big it’s like... What’s even the point of wearing them.”

-

“May I sit here?”

“Last I checked, it was a free world.”

Chirrut’s lip twitched into a grin. He drew a square in the grass with his stick. “Is there shit in this square?”

Baze did not reply immediately. Chirrit wondered if he should redraw the square, thinking perhaps Baze had missed it. 

Then, a sigh, and a reluctant “no.”

Chirrut nodded, folded his stick, lowered himself to the ground, and sat. He didn’t hear Baze move, which meant the man was still watching him. Staring, probably. People liked to stare at the blind. Blind people couldn’t catch you looking. Chirrut made an approximation of Baze’s eyeline and attempted to meet Baze’s eye. “What are you staring at?” he asked, enjoying the guilt he could usually gain from this kind of quarry. 

“Staring?” Baze asked, sounding genuinely ignorant as to what Chirrut meant. A slight shift, the telltale sound of Baze turning his head, and Chirrut realised he had made a mistake. 

“Oh,” Chirrut said, “I thought… you might be…”

“Napping,” Baze said. A beat. “That confident in your looks?”

A laugh came out of Chirrut like Baze had just clapped him on the back to make him cough- “You’re a comedian!” he said, incredibly pleased by the development.

“God, no.”

“You have a comedian’s sense of timing!” 

“Were you sent here to insult me, …” There was a pause, in which Baze realised he did not have an endearment he could fall back on, as if he had not just met the man before him less than a minute previously.

“Chirrut,” Chirrut provided.

“Ahh.” Baze took the name and asked it why it sounded familiar. “The project partner.”

“The project partner,” Chirrut confirmed.

Chirrut heard Baze sit up from where he had been lying, then root through what sounded like a leather satchel. Baze flicked through a pad of paper. “They might have warned me,” Baze said, not hiding the irritation in his voice.

“Those notes sound hand-written.”

“They are.”

“Mmm.” Chirrut held out his hand. Baze, after a second’s pause, deposited the notes in his fingers. Chirrut leafed through them for a second, nodding as he ran his eyes over the words. “Yep,” he said. “This might be a problem.” He paused. “I can’t read.”

Chirrut heard Baze take a very steady breath, heard him control a sigh before it was vocalised, and decided that Baze would be very fun to play with.

-

Thus it came to be that Asian Jesus and Dad Jokes became a campus-wide must-see. At first, the pair drew attention for luring unwitting crowds of white students to their resting spot under the tree. Baze blamed Chirrut’s relentless meditation, claiming the students were mistaking the pair for some bullshit zen club. Chirrut blamed Baze for looking like the most stereotypical dealer of ‘not-technically-legal-medicine’.

Baze would reply with a “you don’t even know what I look like.”

Chirrut would begin praying, loudly, in the hopes of actually creating the alleged bullshit zen club around Baze. 

The crowds of unwitting white students were, in actual fact, a good mix of both (there was a great deal of overlap in both markets.)

-

Chirrut had, somehow, managed to spend enough nights on Baze’s couch to have become an actual housemate in less than three months. Rather alarmingly, the day after Bodhi had joked about how their two-bedroom house was “definitely spacious enough for three!”, Chirrut had sold his accommodation and moved his stuff to Bodhi and Baze’s house.

To be fair, Baze did not like Bodhi very much, on account of his tragic taste in football team. At the very least, Chirrut could not sink to Bodhi-levels of housemate standards. Bodhi might have been clean, and respected personal boundaries, and was able to cook without very-nearly burning the house down, but Bodhi was blue, and Chirrut was red. 

So, on the fated night of the blue-red showdown, Baze, intoxicated on nothing but the highs of the game, very loudly accepted Chirrut into their household, promoting Chirrut from couch-surfer to occupier of space in Baze’s bed.

Chirrut might have exaggerated his interest in the sport that night.

-

It was a small house, big for two, comfy for three, a squash for six. Cassian was Bodhi’s mate. K and Jyn were Cassian’s mates. It was Bodhi’s birthday, and Cassian was a puppy who liked to make his friends everyone else’s friends. He wanted Bodhi to feel loved, and the best way to do that, in Cassian’s mind, was to bring everyone. Everyone, for Cassian, happened to be the giant that was K, who barely fit through their door and was vocal about their annoyance with Bodhi and Baze’s “dwarven” living arrangements, and Jyn, who, as far as Baze could tell, did not want to be there.

It became increasingly apparent that the coffee table (the only real table in their household) would not hold under the strain of all six of their respective enthusiasms (K’s knees constantly budging it, Cassian slamming his hands on it in laughter, Jyn’s picking at the glass with the metal of her jacket sleeve button… and so Baze, in a bid to protect his sanity, left.

He didn’t go far, just to the kitchen, but Chirrut was quick to follow him. It was, Baze was loath to admit, touching. Baze had a hard time believing good will in most everyone he came across, but Chirrut was an obnoxious shit so much of the time that any evidence of good will came across as heartfelt.

Baze removed the dumpling skins, vegetables and minced meat from the fridge, knowing that his calmer breathing would, in turn, calm Chirrut’s worries. Or, as often turned out to be the case, Chirrut would actually be thinking about dumplings, and would care very little about Baze’s breathing. Annoyingly, that thought calmed Baze further. Domesticity was calming. Baze wanted to beat something on principle. 

Chirrut sat himself on the counter-top, legs swinging. “Can I help?”

“Can you make dumplings?”

“No.”

“Then, no. Just sit and watch.” 

Chirrut didn’t have to say anything to get Baze to throw cornstarch at him.

-

Baze Malbus turned out to be dumpling maker extraordinaire. Chirrut held a dumpling up to the light, held between his chopsticks. He turned, seriously, to Baze. “Baze,” he said, “these are the best looking dumplings-” 

Baze hit him to prevent further words from leaving his mouth. The dumpling dislodged itself from Chirrut’s grip and plunged, faster than the speed of light into Chirrut’s dish of vinegar-soy-chilli-oil sauce. The tsunami of sauce crashed out of the china bowl, leaping in every direction… 

Today, Baze had decided on a white tank-top. He liked to prove he was funny by printing slogans on it that Chirrut couldn’t read. Today’s was one of his particular favourites: “my boyfriend is blind, tell him i’m hot.” 

Baze looked down at the dark brown splotch and sighed. Karma, he guessed. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> possibly the least worked-on fic i've ever written, but i have so little time and wanted to write about gay dads eating dumplings. possibly more if i ever have free time
> 
> ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com


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